


you make me live

by LieutenantSaavik



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 11:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18809764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: And they were back at the bookshop.And there was, omnipresently, a sudden and subtle pain, like a scab, like a bruise, a wound that would heal but first resolutely scar. Aziraphale felt it, all over the world. The very air was raw, as if it still held cinders.





	you make me live

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burngormanlesbian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burngormanlesbian/gifts).



And they were back at the bookshop.

And there was, omnipresently, a sudden and subtle pain, like a scab, like a bruise, a wound that would heal but first resolutely scar. Aziraphale felt it, all over the world. The very air was raw, as if it still held cinders.

But he loved Crowley. Not in the way humans did, in their urge to grasp at each other and cram each other into the cracks they found in their own souls hoping it would heal them. Not in the way demons did, in their urge to take the love they felt and warp it into obsession and possessiveness just so they could keep it, keep some semblance of its warmth. And not in the way angels did, in their urge to keep their love holy and therefore not love at all.

He loved Crowley the way only he could, and the way only he did, a love that absolutely radiated from his eyes, from his being, a love that was imperfect and, because of that imperfection, pure.

Pure, and nearly impossible to express.

 _Impossible_ to express.

Ineffable.

Crowley was on one of the armrests of the couch, perched more like a bird than a snake, and staring with his uncanny, piercing eyes right at Aziraphale’s mouth.

“So,” he said eloquently.

“Hm,” said Aziraphale, equally eloquently, back.

“Huh,” said Crowley, his head listing sideways. “Feel like I ought to kiss you.”

“You could, if you like.”

Crowley huffed something that could have been annoyance or amusement. “If you like,” he repeated.

“Well,” said Aziraphale primly, “ _I_ wouldn’t mind it.”

“Wouldn’t mind it.”

“Are you simply echoing everything I say?”

“Are you simply echoing--” Crowley began, then broke off with a short laugh. “Come on, angel! Will we or won’t we?”

“Will we or won’t we what?” Aziraphale asked indignantly.

“You know what!”

“Kiss, you mean?”

“For someone so intelligent, you really are…” Crowley began, then shook his head. “Get over here, then.”

Aziraphale straightened his jacket and stepped over to where Crowley was, closing his eyes as the demon took his hands for the very first time. The sensation--the sudden rush of _feeling_ \--was so strong he almost pulled backward.

Crowley dropped his hands. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly,” said Aziraphale quickly, “And I still want to kiss you. But--”

But a thought had just occurred to him, and he had to get it out _now_. “After the apocalypse, everyone who had died--on the motorways, at the nuclear facility--”

“Air force base--”

“Oh, you know what I mean, you old serpent! They came back to life, didn’t they?”

Crowley blinked slowly. “Think so. Or, if not everyone, most people. Odd, really. Out of the four hoursemen, I wouldn’t’ve picked Death to be the one that gets cheated, but,” and he shrugged, “There’s the Ineffable Plan for you. Why d’you ask?”

Aziraphale nodded clippedly. “Does that include the person you lost?”

“Lost?”

“I thought I’d asked you not to repeat everything I--”

“No, I’m actually confused this time,” Crowley assured him, “But don’t tell anyone. Who did I lose?”

“Who did you lose? Do you genuinely not know what I’m on about?”

“No!” Crowley protested, “I actually don’t!”

“I,” said Aziraphale, with no small amount of hurt. “Found you--my very soul found you, I might add, through miles and miles of time and space, in mere _seconds_ \--and you, you foolish, _foolish_ \--demon!--you _said_ you weren’t leaving Earth, and I can only presume you would have _stayed_ there and _died_ \--actually properly _died_ , Crowley!--alone and _drunk_ in that bar--which wasn’t even a _nice_ one!--and you were willing to _sit around_ and _perish_ because ‘something changed,’ or your ‘plans changed,’ because you’d ‘lost’ your ‘best friend,’ and I have to ask who on _Earth_ ,” and his voice broke, “Could have--could have possibly _compelled_ you--to want,” he stopped and brought a hand to his mouth and found that he was shaking, “To want to _die_ , Crowley.”

Crowley suddenly found the floor very, very fascinating. His eyes stung.

The tears of angels and the tears of demons--and the tears of humans--are the same.

“You,” he finally said.

“Me?” Aziraphale asked, stupefied.

“ _You’re_ my best friend. I thought you’d died, _damn it_ ,” he snapped. “Aziraphale, you _stupid_ angel, I thought someone had come and locked the doors and torched the place with you inside it, and I thought of you trying to save your books instead of yourself and not even thinking of what it would do to the world--to anyone--to someone--to _me_ if you--I thought of you--I thought of you running and shouting and trying to pray--and still burning--I thought of you trying to breathe--and still-- _dying_.”

He took a breath that tried, and failed, to be stoic. “And I made a choice then,” he went on, stabilising his voice, stabilising himself, “Because any world without you is worth saving, but no world without you is worth living in, not to me.”

There was a long and shivering silence, and it seemed the world contorted into a thin and fleshy slice that shuddered and staggered and _hurt_ as it hurled itself around its sun over and over and over.

Aziraphale sat down, unceremoniously, on the sofa. He pulled Crowley down next to him and slowly wrapped his arms around him. He closed his eyes and, with some effort, miracled the record player in the next room to life.

_I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things; we can do the tango just for two--_

“No,” Crowley muttered, his face pressed into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, “No more songs full of sad things. And I dance like I’m on Eurovision. Tango’s out of the question.”

_Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago; idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword--_

“No,” said Crowley with slightly more force, and tugged Aziraphale closer to him, “No more prisons. No more swords. Idealism can stay but it’s on fucking thin ice.”

_Never gonna give you up; never gonna let you down; never gonna run around and--_

Crowley growled low in his throat and the record player exploded.

Aziraphale sighed. “Only trying to help, dear fellow.”

“Why don’t _you_ sing something,” Crowley groaned.

“I doubt you’re in the mood for a celestial harmony,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed. Crowley was clinging to him with surprising strength.

“I’m in the mood for _you_. Sing something happy,” Crowley demanded, and softened his voice. “Please.”

Aziraphale sought the bookshop for help. His eyes landed on The Sound of Music. He looked elsewhere.

Night had fallen, he realised when he saw the dark squares in the windows, which gave him a rather silly idea.

He cleared his throat.

“ _Silent night_ ,” he began, tripping over the melody at first. “ _Holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Here’s an angel and his demon best friend; here, it’s Tuesday; the world didn’t end. Sleep in--er, earthly--peace, sleep in a nice, earthly peace._ ”

He coughed lightly. “Did that help?”

Crowley shifted against him and nodded. Aziraphale turned his neck, somewhat awkwardly, and kissed him on the forehead. Crowley turned his head, somewhat awkwardly, and kissed him on the mouth.

They stayed like that a while, embracing.

Under the burns, the new scars on the great unstable mass that was reality, deeper and more subtle than the pain, there was the bedrock-under-the-bedrock that had sprung from the ground like grass or fire the moment Adam and Eve had stepped out from Eden.

Love.

Of course, it was stronger in some places than others, but Aziraphale had come to realise in the past eight hours that there wasn’t a single place on the planet that didn’t bear the footprint, as it were, of some lost-but-lingering affection, some misty morning memory of a kiss, a hug, a brush of fingers, or a song.

Crowley, of course, realised that long ago.

**Author's Note:**

> this is in my google drive titled "absolutely un beta read. absolutely fuck bullshit here in this one"
> 
> the person this work is gifted to is the person who pointed out to me the fact that crowley was willing to just sit there, get drunk, and die without aziraphale, and ive been emo ever since. gay rights


End file.
